


Lost Humanity

by TheDarkMetalLady



Series: Fading Embers [2]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Action, Angst, Gen, Horror, Suspense, spinoff sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMetalLady/pseuds/TheDarkMetalLady
Summary: The raging volcanic fires of Schiehallion gurgled and seethed, spewing glowing embers into the filthily ashen air. On a ledge just above the great volcanic crater, barely visible through the cloak of smog, stood a single silhouette. Defective, glitched, damaged beyond repair -- but functional.A spinoff/sequel to Room of Remembrance, exploring one of many possibilities.





	1. The Helmet

**Author's Note:**

> If you have not read Room of Remembrance, read that before reading this. Else, you might be very confused. Also, this story is not for the faint of heart. 
> 
> I do not own the Gloryhammer characters. Please note that this story is about the _characters represented by the band_ and **not** about the band members themselves.

Ralathor stared at the charred helmet atop the armor stand, his breath caught in his throat. Surely it was impossible; there was no plausible way for that to be there. Ralathor knew that the helmet shouldn’t exist. Based on the account of events from the Hootsman, Ralathor knew the astral demigod had been weakened and unable to prevent Prince Angus McFife XIII from falling into the depths of the volcano after defeating Zargothrax and causing for the dark sorcerer to be turned into liquid dust.

So how was it possible for the prince’s helmet to be here, in the room?

Ralathor shook his head and took a breath. Holding the document he had gotten from behind the desk tightly in one hand, he cautiously approached the helmet on the armor stand, steps silent as if any noise would disturb it. He was on guard, cautious. If he was correct, then this helmet would prove to not actually be there, would prove to be nothing more than a cruel illusion created by his exhausted mind. (Though worrying, it would be less worrying than the alternative. He didn’t let himself think about the alternative.)

Once within reach, his steps stopped, and he extended a hand slowly, his gaze locked with the imaginary gaze of the helmet. He fully expected his fingers to phase right through the object or for it to disappear just before he touched it; both of those would have made sense. Both were possibilities he considered likely, with the former being more likely than the latter as his fingers reached forward ever so slowly, getting ever so closer without the helmet disappearing from view…

His fingers made contact with a slightly rough and scorched surface. 

The submarine commander gasped, suddenly feeling a bit out of breath. No, this was impossible, this couldn’t be true. This had to be a cruel joke, someone’s fiendish revenge upon him for leading so many people to their deaths, or perhaps even his own mind’s vicious reminder of what he’d caused (even if he was well aware that his own mind had never created anything this realistic.)

He slowly drew his fingers back. Where he had touched the helmet, his fingers had left imprints from lifting up some of the soot off the surface. When he looked at his hand, he saw that those fingertips were, in fact, blackened. He looked between his hand and the helmet several times in disbelief, trying to make sense of this--

Then, a flash of green on his left. He spun around quickly, every muscle tense, breathing heavily, the document in his hand held close against his chest. His eyes darted around, gaze searching for anything green that could have caused it. The bed was unmade and had a pile of dirty laundry shoved half-way under it; the desk was a mess of papers, writing utensils, and the occasional dining room silverware; there were some training weapons scattered about on the floor and various surfaces…

Ralathor frowned, then shook his head to himself. He wiped his soot-covered fingers off against his already damaged and filthy uniform before using both hands to carefully roll up the document he held, grabbing a scroll bar (which was, for some reason, on the bed) and sticking that into the roll so it wouldn’t get deformed or crushed. Then, he reached to the back of his head and managed the miracle of untangling a hair tie from his hair with one hand (while likely also thoroughly tangling his hair even more than before and thoroughly cementing the need to cut it later). He used the hair tie to fasten the document around the bar so it wouldn’t unravel. He then fastened the scroll to his belt. It wasn’t ideal (if it had been, he would have had a cover for the scroll) but it was better than risking easily damaging the document. 

As he finished securing the scroll to his waist, he happened to glance up, looking at the mirror. It was then that he realized what was missing -- the weapon that had been attached to the top of the mirror, a dagger if memory served correctly (which was currently not a guarantee, far as Ralathor was concerned), was missing. 

Something weird was going on here. Ralathor didn’t like it. 

A flash of movement just below where his gaze was focused on caught his attention. He frowned, blinking several times, not seeing anything out of place. (Besides his hair. Oh Hoots, did it really look that bad? He would definitely need to cut it.) 

Unfortunately for him, his eyes and mind were alike exhausted by the whole situation, and he failed to initially notice that there was a silhouette standing perfectly still behind him, the black-and green outline barely visible against his own dark uniform. He did notice, however, when there was a movement behind him, and the silhouette’s positioning became desynchronized with his own. Ralathor saw as an arm in blackened green armor raised a weapon -- a knife, the knife from above the mirror, held blade-up and with the pommel pointed downwards. 

Time seemed to slow to a taunting crawl. 

Ralathor found himself unable to move fast enough, no matter how much he willed his body to, for shock had ingrained itself in his mind and his legs seemed to take root into the floor tiles. His eyes widened and he tried to yell out, to raise his arms and somehow protect himself, but none of his muscles would react fast enough. He saw in the mirror as the raised arm brought down the weapon along a collision course towards his head, and he could do nothing but watch.

Time suddenly sped back up, and the weapon made contact, the force of the blow knocking the submarine commander to the floor. He ended up rolling slightly as he fell, landing heavily on his side. The world was sideways now, his vision blurred and darkening around the edges, as if he were in a tunnel. His head pounded, a bruise on the back of his head throbbing as it formed. His very thoughts seemed to ache if he tried to focus.

In front of him, a pair of soot-covered dark green boots stood, ones that were all too familiar, including even the broken golden buckle on the left boot, which was cracked in the exact same way as Ralathor remembered seeing it long ago in the distant future. He swore that, if he looked closely enough, he could still see bits of red Martian dust clinging to the boots, the powder notorious for being impossible to wash off fully, which he supposed was true enough after all. 

The boots stepped forward, closer to Ralathor. A pause, during which Ralathor held his breath, as if in the vague hope he may be mistaken for dead. For a few seconds, it almost seemed to work.

Then, a laugh sounded against his ears. Familiar but unknown, victorious but corrupted, human but lacking humanity. 

The hermit released the bated breath he held.

He closed his eyes.


	2. The Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralathor was not planning to go down without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: reading this chapter may increase your predisposition to write a long and detailed comment, potentially cursing out the author's and characters' choices alike.

At the last moment, as Ralathor heard the knife whistle through the air, he sprung into action.

He rolled, not away but towards his aggressor, grabbing one of the soot-covered green boots and pulling. His opponent missed the strike and stumbled, and the other boot came down on Ralathor’s back. The submarine commander grit his teeth before throwing his entire weight to the side, rolling once more and knocking his disoriented opponent’s foot off of his back. Now behind the opponent and still having the element of surprise, he rose to his knees. Raising a hand, he swung his fist horizontally, using his elbow’s strength to perform a hammer-like strike against the back of his opponent’s right knee.

Though his head spun, Ralathor had to focus. The smallest mistake meant the greatest cost. 

When the opponent went down, Ralathor got up, grabbing the nearest weapon off the wall, which happened to be a sword. Gripping it by the blade, he brought down the guard towards the back of his opponent’s head. 

The opponent raised an armored arm, intercepting the blow, the junction of the blade and guard striking against their vambrace and locking. Ralathor made a vital mistake -- he let himself get distracted. He had looked forward, at the mirror, and the face he saw staring back at him made him pause. Almost all of it was familiar. 

The opponent’s other hand quickly reached up, grabbing the hilt of the sword, and gave the sword a good tug before Ralathor could fully release the blade. Ralathor stepped back, hands quickly covering in crimson, while the opponent rose to their feet and spun around, the blade in their hands already stained red. 

Grey met green, shocked met indifferent, vigilant met corrupt. 

Ralathor opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word, he closed it once more, side-stepping a blow meant for his chest. He ducked under another blow meant for his neck and grabbed the next nearest weapon he could find -- a mace. He spun to avoid the next blow and blocked the one after that, then parried the next. The parry caught his opponent off-guard, for they were not as well-versed with sword-fighting as others Ralathor had fought, as the sword had never been their primary weapon, whereas Ralathor had fought with many and against many weapons. 

Blocking the next blow resulted in another lock. Holding the mace in one hand, Ralathor used the mix of blood and soot that coated the fingers on his free hand to quickly draw a shape on the back of the hand that held the mace -- a rune. Almost instantly once he activated it, his hands began to heal and his head stopped spinning so much. He then focused on drawing another rune immediately beneath it, never once letting himself look at the face of his opponent, knowing that doing so would cause weakness. Though the man he fought looked familiar, it was not someone the warrior knew. 

Their weapons unlocked before Ralathor could finish the second rune, causing Ralathor to accidentally smudge his finger across it and void it. Ralathor had to dodge the next two blows, for they were far stronger than he was comfortable with and were all aimed at his vitals. He then countered with a blow of his own, seeming to head for striking the opponent’s chest but faking and striking their swordarm’s elbow, the entire blunt force of the mace concentrated upon the joint. As expected, the opponent dropped their blade and immediately gripped their injured elbow.

Ralathor paused and made the mistake of looking at his opponent’s face. With their eyes closed, Ralathor could almost believe that his opponent was the friend at whose side he had fought two wars. His breath caught in his throat for a moment and his guard almost dropped like a stone plunged into a pond, but no, he refused, he wouldn’t fall for this cruelest trick of all. He focused on what was different, on the blackened veins on the sides of this living nightmare’s neck, on the singed hair that no longer resembled the short but well-kept haircut Ralathor had affectionately teased on a few occasions, on the eyes whose whites had been replaced by a blackness that sent a shiver down his spine.

Taking in all of these details almost made Ralathor forget one very important detail about his opponent. 

Angus McFife XIII had been ambidextrous. 

The moment that memory resurfaced, Ralathor the hermit threw himself back, landing against the desk and narrowly avoiding taking the slash of the knife to his flesh. With pure luck, it had only caught the material of his uniform, leaving his skin below unharmed. 

He didn’t need to be a mage to recognize the blade for what it was, though being well-versed in the art and history of magic should have helped; he had been foolish to not realize it before, when he had seen it fastened to the top of the mirror. He had been the prey in a game he hadn’t known he was playing because he had ignored the signs in front of him. It was not a mistake he could afford to make again.

He dove to the side to avoid the next blow, then raised his mace to block the third. The blackened knife blade struck the handle of the mace and sunk into it. Ralathor didn’t need to look up (he couldn’t look up, looking up meant losing focus and losing the battle and the war he had fought so hard to win) to know that the opponent was smirking. As Ralathor held the mace in one hand, he could see as the blade slowly cleared itself through the mace’s handle, destroying his primary weapon. 

Or so Ralathor’s opponent likely thought. 

Ralathor hadn’t been stunned into shock by the display of power of the Knife of Evil; no, he was well aware of its capabilities. Instead, he had been taking advantage of two things: being next to the desk and having filthy, ambidextrous hands. In the time it took for the blade to cut through the mace handle, which was his opponent’s main focus, Ralathor had drawn out a complex rune with his other hand against an open spot on the desk’s surface. He partially activated it and picked it up, the rune now partially solidified and tangible to him, just as the mace in his other hand was split into two.

When the opponent raised the knife, blade pointed downwards and ready to sail down to pierce Ralathor’s chest, Ralathor lifted the hand that held the rune and blocked the foul blade’s path. He caught the vile weapon by the blade, wrapping his hand around it, and activated the rune.

A flash, then darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you.


	3. The Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralathor has a lapse in his judgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: reading this chapter may increase your predisposition to rapidly and cordially acquaint the author's face with a rectangular prism of stone used commonly in construction.

When Ralathor came to, a magical fog surrounded him from every side. Every muscle in his body was sore, the spell he had cast requiring every bit of energy he could spare, going so far as stealing away some of his very life force. 

When he lifted up his hand to examine it, he could barely see two palm lengths in front of his face. What he was able to make out, however, was a sprinkling of black glitter-like dust on his hand, seeming to still shimmer even without a light source. He knew, at that moment, that his actions and drastic choice had been worth it. 

The Knife of Evil was no more. 

As the fog around him, the lingering remnants of the blade’s immense power, began to clear, Ralathor sat up, ignoring his muscles’ protest. The force of the explosion had knocked him back and against the desk with enough force to break of the wooden desktop. The papers from the desk had been sent flying everywhere, many of them getting damaged, and even the very structure of the desk had suffered a similar fate; he wouldn’t have been able to restore the room to its pre-battle state no matter how hard he tried, so he didn’t. Instead, he focused on getting his body to function properly, occasionally casting small runes.

Within a few moments, he was able to stand up. 

As the fog dissipated, he saw the state of the room. Much of it looked not unlike the command room of the D.S.S. Hootsforce after he had fired the missiles of nuclear justice as his final defense against the Deathknights of Crail. (Deathknights, he had to remind himself often, even after months of having been in this dimension.) In other words, it would likely never be a functional or usable place again. He was impressed that the ceiling hadn’t collapsed on them, given that the room, just like most of the base, was underground. 

The bed, which Ralathor knew had been unmade and with a pile of dirty laundry shoved half-way under it, was nothing more than indistinguishable rubble; the desk that had been a mess of papers, writing utensils, and the occasional dining room silverware was nothing more than indistinguishable rubble; the armor stand that had been in the corner of the room was a pile of indistinguishable rubble; even the training weapons that had been scattered about on the floor and various surfaces had been scattered even further, more than likely damaged beyond repair. 

The only thing that had managed to remain mostly preserved was the mirror. 

Ralathor stepped towards the mirror, instinctively stepping over any obstacles. He came to a stop only about an arm’s length away. The surface of the mirror was fogged over and covered in dust. Ralathor used a section of his uniform’s sleeve at his wrist to wipe away some of the grime, and though the action more smeared the grime and added more from his uniform, it also allowed for him to discover that the mirror was, in fact, intact, at least for the most part. His own grey eyes stared back at him where he had gotten the fog and dust off enough for the reflective surface to be visible.

He looked away, unable to hold his own gaze. 

It was then that he happened to notice that there was the figure of a person face-down on the ground a few feet away, green armor darkened by soot. Ralathor paused, debating his choice; then, he realized that there really was no choice to make at all. He approached the figure slowly, cautiously, watching for any sudden movements. 

Soon, he stood right next to the body. Taking a deep breath that ended up more shakey than he meant for it to, Ralathor crouched down next to the armor-clad form. He looked for any signs of danger, but found none beyond the obvious. Slowly, carefully, he reached out with one hand to where a gloved hand still held tightly to the handle of a dagger that had its blade disintegrated in what was one of the most violent magical explosions Ralathor had ever caused, directly or indirectly. He pried off the fingers one by one and took the handle out of the limp fingers’ grip. He brought it up to examine it closely and then promptly threw the knife handle as hard as he could across the room, feeling an almost sickening form of satisfaction when the handle clattered and snapped as it landed somewhere out of view, becoming one with the rubble of the room. It was serving its fate as it deserved to be. 

He took a few breaths as he watched the location where he threw the knife, as if expecting for it to come back and destroy more lives. Thankfully, that did not happen, which unfortunately meant he had no reason to delay his next potentially unpleasant task. He looked down at the figure on the floor. Using both hands, he rolled it over so that it was now on its back. 

Though some considered him a necromancer many dimensions ago, Ralathor had never enjoyed dealing with dead bodies. In fact, that was why he had chosen to become a necromancer in the first place: the goal was to having living bodies, not dead ones. Unfortunately, it was a practice he had dropped long ago, when it became clear that it was seldom useful in any universe, much less accepted. However, his training from learning certain necromancy-related practices often came useful in the matters of the living. 

In this case, a careful eye aided by a small rune drawn in the dust on the floor revealed what he needed it to reveal. There was a breath, a heartbeat, a remainder of life left in the body that had once been someone he had called a friend -- a friend who had taken on the weight of another world after having been almost crushed by the weight of failing his own, a friend who had been too young to have such responsibility and yet accepted it without questioning, a friend who had matured so quickly when faced with defeat and yet never got to mature fully. A friend who would have made the best king Ralathor had ever met, had fate allowed it. 

Alas, Ralathor was all too familiar with Fate’s cruelty. It never cared for who wanted what or who was ready for what. It would always just go its own way, take people and use them how it wanted and then throw them away as if they were trash once they were no longer needed. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Fate do so, and it wouldn’t be the last. 

It did anger him, however, whenever Fate chose a child as its next playtoy to destroy and make the world forget about. 

Ralathor cast a small rune from a lifestyle long abandoned, deciding to take his chances. If all went well, then this would be no different than handling Proletius’s fate, a painful circumstance which also offered some degree of closure for all involved. And if he was wrong--

A sudden force knocked the air out of Ralathor’s lungs as he got knocked to his back, head and back hitting the floor. His body was pinned by another, one hand keeping his arms above his head and another gripping threateningly at his throat.

He was wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could be sorry.


	4. The Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the reflection of life and death, good and evil blur into one. To find any truth, one must look at a fragment of the whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is the main reason this work has the rating and warnings that it does. Read with caution and please stay safe, both during this month of spooks and in general.

Grey met green, hardened met indifferent, callous met corrupt. 

Ralathor didn’t struggle or try throwing off the person -- no, the living nightmare -- holding him down. The hermit knew what the odds were, and they were not in his favor. He had taken a risk and made a choice -- the wrong choice. Now, he would pay for his own selfishness. Such was the nature of risks, and he knew it all too well. He had been foolish for taking the one he did, almost as foolish and naive as-

He ignored his thoughts there, knowing that to finish that thought meant to focus on undesirable topics. If speaking ill of the dead was wrong, then speaking ill of those whose bodies still continued to function was likely even more so. The submarine commander instead focused on other things, such as trying to get out of his mess. His options were limited in the moment, with himself completely pinned to the ground, his wrists pinned above his head, the tips of his fingers only a centimeter or so away from the mirror, the last unbroken thing in the room. 

If he could somehow buy himself some time… 

“So what now?” Ralathor asked, seeming indifferent and bored. If he wanted another chance to fight for his life, he’d have to do the one thing he had been avoiding. “Are you going to kill me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Ralathor really, really wished that the corruption of the Knife of Evil had at least changed the voice. At least then it wouldn’t have been so easy to mistaken this malformation for his friend. He barely managed to keep his expression neutral and his tone even.

“Then hurry up, I haven’t got all day,” Ralathor challenged, not breaking eye contact. When that got him nothing more than a slight growl in response, he continued, “Unless you--” 

His words were suddenly cut off with a gasp as the hand at his neck tightened its grip for a moment. For a moment, he considered the possibility that this would be the end of it, but after some unknown amount of time (because who dealt in absolutes when they were meaningless to the moment) the pressure at his neck released. He took deep breaths, a single cough slipping out as well as a reminder that he wasn’t as young as he had been several millennia ago.

“That the best you can do?”

Sometimes, picking the most effective strategy almost meant picking the most moronic strategy. 

The hand at his throat let go in favor of moving up and grabbing him by the hair. It gripped a fistful of his hair, pulling rather painfully (one of the disadvantages brought by having long hair). He was forced to lift his head up slightly before it got dragged back and slammed against the floorboards. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth in pain, the force of the slam enough to make him see stars for a moment. After he got out of this, the first thing he’d do would be go to the infirmary and be checked for the concussion he knew he most certainly had by now. 

The hand let go of his hair. Though Ralathor had his eyes closed, he heard the unmistakable sound of a hand being wiped off before it returned to his throat, as if even the living nightmare pinning him down was disgusted by the vile state of his hair. If he hadn’t been in pain right now, he might have laughed (he was certainly insane enough for it by this point). Served the atrocity right. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw that the beast in human skin was glaring down at him with pure, unadaltured fury. Ralathor preferred this over what he had been forced to look at earlier; like this, it was easier to pretend that this monster was someone else. 

“Well?” He pressed. “Have you made up your mind yet, or are you incapable of-”

The smack was sudden and left him with the taste of blood in his mouth, and the hand returned to his throat before he even noticed properly that it had left. 

_ “Shut up.” _

Ralathor didn’t know if it was his exhaustion or inevitable concussion that made him act more reckless than he would have otherwise. Perhaps a mix of both? After all, being several millennia older didn’t mean he was several millennia smarter. Did that even make sense? Probably not, but it did to him in the moment. 

“No.”

That got him a bitter and cruel laugh. “You never learn, do you?” The living nightmare above him sneered. “Maybe someone smarter than yourself would have succeeded where you failed.”

Ralathor tensed slightly. He was fully aware that was a low blow, but he couldn’t let it get to him. He couldn’t.

The monster above him noticed his moment of weakness immediately and smirked. 

“Maybe,” the nightmarish beast continued, “someone else would have been able to prevent what you caused.”

He had to remind himself mentally not to listen to this. Damn it, the thing’s voice was back to its deceptively familiar one, the one it had stolen. 

“Someone who could have kept me from getting stabbed, from falling. Someone who could have brought me home from the battle safe.”

It wasn’t him; it wasn’t him. 

Ralathor wasn’t quite sure when his breaths had become heavier, but they had at some point.

“Someone who could have kept me from suffering.”

“Not you,” Ralathor muttered to himself. 

“What was that?” The monstrosity asked, still looking smug with perceived victory.

“You’re not the one who suffered,” Ralathor said, his tone stronger than he felt. “He suffered, not you.”

“We’re one and the same.”

“No, you’re not. You’re an abomination.”

“Is that how you speak to your prince?”

“It’s how I speak to the ex-prince of a world long destroyed.” 

No one ever said that the hermit didn’t have any low blows of his own to dish, especially when he was exhausted and not capable of truly clear thought. His one hope was that, whatever happened next, his old friend would not have awareness of him having ever made such a comment. 

The comment was surprising enough that it momentarily confused the living nightmare pinning him to the ground. “I did not expect that from an old friend,” it said in a tone that reminded Ralathor of Angus’s when he had informed the prince, fresh from another dimension, what was required to repower the legendary astral hammer of glory. To top matters off, between the haze that still filled the room and the inaccuracies of Ralathor’s perceptions (caused by exhaustion and the likely concussion), it almost looked as if the blackness that covered the veil of the monstrosity’s eyes lightened, losing its dark intensity.

If Ralathor hadn’t known that the prince had been absolutely inept with magical arts, he would have suspected the beast of using magic to plunge a cold blade through his chest. 

“If you’re going to kill me, then do it.”

“Not yet.”

“And why not?” Ralathor growled slightly. “Do it,  _ coward _ .”

The blackness in the monstrosity’s eyes returned fully once more. However, even when Ralathor expected he had pushed too far, no finishing blow came. Instead, another comment, another delay, another stall.

“Begging for the mercy of death?” The nightmarish beast was amused. “I wonder what your friends would say if they saw you now.”

“I know what one friend would have said.”  _ Fight for your life. _

Ralathor flicked his wrists, and the hand pinning them suddenly let go, as if burned. The monstrosity broke eye contact with him, green eyes with black whites looking up to see what was going on. Ralathor pressed one hand against the rune he had drawn on the surface of the mirror behind him, then pressed the other hand against a rune he had drawn on the floor, both runes created while his wrists had been pinned. He then picked up the rune from the floor and held it up, extending his hand so the palm with the rune aimed at the space just behind the monster, behind his opponent. He closed his eyes and activated both runes. 

A chill ran across his entire body, then disappeared just as quickly. Adrenaline took over, clarifying his mind, as he opened his eyes. He was no longer on the floor; instead, he was now standing behind his opponent, with their back facing him. In front of his opponent was the mirror, its surface shimmering and no longer reflecting properly. 

The opponent spun around, ready to attack, but Ralathor was quicker and craftier, space and time both bending slightly to his demands. Moving faster than a human had any right to, he grabbed the nearest thing he could grab from the rubble and threw it with impeccable aim. 

The horned helmet, green and blackened by soot, sailed through the air. It hit the opponent in the head, stumbling them several feet back. Ralathor hesitated for half a second, waiting for the perfect opening, before rushing forward, a single goal in his mind. 

He would survive. He would end this. 

He would end this now. 

Just as the opponent was regaining their footing, Ralathor’s boot made contact with their chest. The blow was powerful, the force backed up by a sprinting start and enhanced by the bending of time and space. The opponent was sent stumbling, flying back. They tripped over the bottom edge of the mirror before falling through the shimmering surface and ending up on the other side, within the mirror itself. 

The opponent regained their footing on the other side of the mirror and glared outwards, at Ralathor. There was no confusing the message the glare sent. It wasn’t just  _ you will die _ ; it was  _ you will suffer. _ It wasn’t a threat; it was a promise. The opponent snarled before breaking out into a run towards the portal that would allow for them to return to the fight and retaliate. 

Ralathor felt his magic and energy both waning. He would not be able to get to the mirror in time to deactivate the rune in the bottom corner that powered the gateway, and he would not survive a second confrontation against the opponent. He gripped the scroll at his side -- the will and final wishes of his friend -- and removed it from his belt, the grime from his hands dirtying the pristine parchment. With a finger, he traced a small symbol on it before lifting it in the air and throwing it with as much strength as his arm could muster, directly at the mirror. 

The scroll did not go through the portal. 

The mirror shattered. 

A scream suddenly filled the room, agonizing in intensity. Ralathor covered his ears, but that did little to help against the assault. The shriek was inhumanly human, primal in nature and painting a vivid image of the pure agony of its source. Ralathor fell to his knees, lowering his head, barely able to hear his own thoughts but knowing what they were just the same. 

He didn’t know how long it lasted, only that it had ended abruptly, the absolute silence that filled the room a stark contrast. After a few moments, he removed his hands from his ears and looked up slowly. He then rose back to his feet, muscles shaking slightly, and looked around the room. 

The bed, which Ralathor knew had been unmade and with a pile of dirty laundry shoved half-way under it, was nothing more than indistinguishable rubble; the desk that had been a mess of papers, writing utensils, and the occasional dining room silverware was nothing more than indistinguishable rubble; the armor stand that had been in the corner of the room was a pile of indistinguishable rubble; even the training weapons that had been scattered about on the floor and various surfaces had been scattered even further, more than likely damaged beyond repair. The mirror was shattered practically to dust, small shards of crystal covering the entire room. The scroll had ended up landing half-way between Ralathor and where the mirror had once been, the parchment soaked in crimson and destroyed. 

Ralathor had to stop his assessment there. He covered his mouth and closed his eyes, feeling bile crawl up the back of his throat. After a few seconds, he managed to swallow it back down, shuddering slightly at the unpleasantness. Taking a few deep breaths, he opened his eyes once more. 

There was nothing left that he could do; every remaining sign of the presence of Angus McFife XIII, hero of this dimension hailing from another fallen one, was gone. 

Ralathor’s actions had ensured that. 

He would be remembered only by those who met him and forgotten by those who hadn’t, another page torn from the fledgling history book of a dimension that was miniscule in comparison to the grandness and vastness of the multiverse. 

The world span and swam a bit. Ralathor shook his head; he could deliberate on philosophical thoughts on the multiverse and his own eternal role and impact later. It was time to leave this room, to close this chapter of his life for good and learn from the many, many mistakes he had made, perhaps starting first and foremost with his decision to allow a nineteen year old naive prince who had never seen battle to wage a war against an immortal enemy Ralathor had spent the last half of an eternity chasing across dimensions and timelines, or perhaps starting with his foolish decision to allow himself to get close to any mortal again to begin with. 

Ralathor stumbled a bit on his way out of the room, though he couldn’t tell if the rubble or his own feet were to blame. He did, however, notice a sharp pain in his chest when he moved. He paused and looked down. It took a few seconds to find it, but then he saw it -- a small bit of crystal sticking out of his chest, embedded into his flesh. He grabbed it and pulled it out, only to find that that the shard was some five centimeters longer than he expected. 

He shrugged and tossed it aside before carrying on his way towards the exit of the room. After all, a shard through the heart meant nothing to one who was already heartless. It was a good attempt, though. 

He quietly opened the door of the room and stepped out into the hall, taking a deep breath. Unlike the complete demolition of the room, the hallway had been completely unaffected, and stepping into it had felt as if he were entering a different dimension. He knew he looked about as out of place as he felt, with his wrecked uniform and hair that would definitely need to be cut and overall haunted look. He closed the door to the room behind him carefully before beginning to make his way down the hall. He knew that, once his mind was less fogged and exhausted, he would face his own regrets and the consequences of the choices he had made, of the ones he couldn’t undo. He already did, in a way, even now. 

In his exhaustion, he failed to notice that the usually obnoxiously loud hinges of the door to the room had not made a sound. Likewise, his own footsteps were silent, despite being less than careful. 

Instead, his thoughts wandered a bit, still captivated by what had happened, for some things didn’t make sense. The living nightmare could have easily struck him down by stabbing him in the first encounter, and Ralathor wouldn’t have had the chance to even try defending himself. Likewise, it would have snapped his neck or crushed his windpipe at any moment it wanted when it had him pinned down; instead, it had hesitated and chosen to talk to him. Ralathor struggled to understand what was its master plan, or if a master plan had existed at all.

What would have happened, then, had he not gone into the room? Would the monster have destroyed it anyways, to destroy what remained of the person it had once been? Or worse, would it have paused and looked around, its fangs dulling and claws shortening as it remembered the person it had once been? 

Maybe it was right. Maybe if Ralathor had been a better person, he would have figured out a way to save his friend -- if not in the final battle against Zargothrax, then in the final battle against the monster his friend had become. Perhaps Angus McFife XIII hadn’t been completely gone after all, not yet, and it had been Ralathor who finished him off. 

As Ralathor made it to the corner of the hall, a sudden weakness crashed over him. He grew dizzy, his vision fading a bit, darkening around the edges. He leaned against something -- the wall? The floor? -- and closed his eyes. Time stretched, then snapped, and darkness took over, accompanied by an acute coldness.

He knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never said this was a happy story. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't say I hadn't warned you.
> 
> Want to see some of my other works or request a story? Check out my tumblr [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/) and my prompt and request rules [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/PromptAndRequestRules).


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